Sitting in a worn camping chair
Silent like the grey mist in the air I cannot see
Moisture clinging to the trees
And roots in the darkness -
The pops and cracks of the fire in front of me.
My boots and face hot to the touch
And the starkness
Of a thousand cold whispers behind my back
Drawing my focus from burning embers, and
Smokey gasps of heated gases that calm and temper
The entirety of my whole.